Night of the Hashishim
by I-Am-The-Stig
Summary: The hashishim have come to Ankh-Morpork and are assassinating people all over the city. The watch and the assassins must find out who's hiring them and put a stop to the hashishim before it's too late. M because it involves drug use and violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Greetings all, its been a while since I've written a story but I can't for the life of me remember why I stopped, so here's a new one!**

**First of all, it was influenced by Assassins Creed and the hassanssins from Prince of Persia, but I don't consider it a cross-over because you don't need to have watched/played them in order to understand this fic. Also the hashishim are, in my mind, discworldified.**

**Secondly, I'd like to acknowledge the contribution of A. E. Pessimal, specifically his hashishim fic. I didn't even know Discworld had hashishim until I read it! It also meant I could make this fit the Discworld… er, world better. (I would have called them hassanssins and made them just like the ones in Prince of Persia, but now they are Discworld hashishim!)**

**Lastly, I'm well known for giving constructive criticism to other people to help them improve their writing, but when it comes to my own writing I am practically blind to any imperfections (yes, I am an egomaniac). So I would really appreciate it if people gave me some constructive criticism, instead of just telling me it's fantastic and that I'm fantastic and their life is now so much better because I started writing. It also means that I'll write better stories that you can then enjoy, so you benefit! (I don't believe in pure altruism). :)**

**Yes, so criticism is good, but… please be soft about it. I can get offended and start throwing things when someone doesn't think I'm the most awesome thing that ever happened to them. :)**

**Anyway, enjoy the story!**

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Lord Neville Gumbute was sitting in his favourite chair, sipping the glass of wine that had been handed to him by his manservant, and ranting about the latest thing to irritate him.

Once again the Assassins had refused a contract, and for no other reason than it was 'too hard'.

"Too hard! When I was a young Assassin I practically begged for the most difficult contracts," Gumbute exclaimed, pausing only long enough to draw breath and sip his wine.

"Downey doesn't know how to run the Guild, he's ruined the assassins and spoilt them! It's because of those new girls they're letting in. They have to drop their standards to allow for their delicate dispositions. Hah! They're better off at home sewing and learning proper women's work. You'd think a man like Downey would resist the corruption of a fine masculine establishment like the Assassin's Guild.

When I was a lad we were expected to grin and bear it, to endure the worst pain and suffering, it made us tough! Even when we were half frozen and starved and dizzy from blood loss, we had to run across the entire city, with dogs on the ground and older assassin students hunting us from the rooftops! They wouldn't do that these days. These new assassins are too concerned about looking good, practicing their pose in the mirror instead of their knife throwing. Charging rates through the roof, just so they can buy the latest clothing.

They even retire after only a few years! If it wasn't for my knee I'd still be taking contracts, and I'm in my seventies! These young people are all degenerates! You'd think Downey would do something about it! He should teach them what being an assassin is all about!"

Ali Dhin, Lord Gumbute's long suffering manservant, listened for any key phrases that could possibly require a response, but otherwise ignored the tirade completely. Lord Gumbute had something to rage about almost every night. Ali suspected his lord actually enjoyed it.

"Hah, do you know some of the reasons they come up with! 'The contract is too hard.' What are they afraid of ninja's for? They're assassins! 'We're being paid protection money,' or 'they're hiring one of us as a body guard, it's a conflict of interest.' Hah, they should stir things up a bit and take the contract. Assassins will get a lot sharper if they have to fight each other.

Lipwig, Vimes, Carrot, they're all supposed to be better alive for the 'public good.' What does Downey know about the public? I'm the public and I want them dead! 'We owe them a favour, they're a retired assassin, they're a current assassin, we don't kill our own, not worth the effort for so little money, don't exist,' excuses, excuses! So many bloody excuses!"

Lord Gumbute was a regular customer of the assassins, but he'd been complaining about them a lot quite recently. Mainly because as an old person he thought the younger generation was corrupted, but also because they'd been refusing a lot of contracts. Twenty-seven by Ali's count.

"The Hashishim wouldn't refuse a contract," Ali thought.

"What? Who?" demanded Gumbute.

After a moment of confusion and panic at his lord's new found mind reading ability, Ali realised he'd actually said the thought out loud.

"Apologies sir, I didn't mean to interrupt you"

"What are these Hashishims? Why haven't you mentioned them before? They sound foreign to me, they're not some sort of mystical legend you foreigners are prone to believing in are they?"

Ali thought of a few 'mystical legends' Lord Gumbute believed in, but was very careful to make sure he said nothing.

"They are Hersheban assassins. The original assassins actually, they've been around for thousands of years," he explained.

"Are they any good?" Gumbute asked.

"There are many legends about their amazing feats and abilities," Ali said, ignoring Gumbute's remark about superstitious Klatchians.

"They are said to be fearless and will complete any contract given to them, even if it means a thousand of them will perish in doing so.

There is a story that long ago when he was invading Hersheba, the great Latatian general Tacticus laid siege to the Hashishim's fortress. He woke up in his tent one morning to find a dagger and freshly baked hot cakes on his pillow. A Hashishim had made it past his entire army and with impunity made it clear how easy it would have been to take his life. Tacticus took the hint and left."

Ali was becoming more enthusiastic as he told the tales of the Hashishim, but was interrupted by Gumbute, who asked, "Why hot cakes?"

"… Pardon sir?"

"Why hot cakes? Why not a hot roast?"

"… I suppose it would get oil all over the general's pillow."

"Considerate, these Hashishim – for foreigners at least. The hot cakes were poisoned!" Gumbute declared triumphantly.

"I don't know, sir," Ali replied. When it appeared Gumbute would say no more Ali continued, but he'd lost his enthusiasm after the interruption and so finished in a deadpan tone of voice.

"They will accept and complete any contract. They will accept alternatives to coin to pay their fee, including bullion, Ankh-Morpork dollars and dates. They also demand a gift of hashish before they begin their assignment."

"what's Hashish? What do they want that for?" Gumbute asked. Like many nobles he was offended by things he didn't know.

"Uh, it's stuff that comes from a type of plant. Legend is that they use it to go into a trance and see visions of their target, so they can find where they are and plan how they will inhume them. It is even said they can find who the target is even though they haven't been told a name or description or anything! They just get paid for a contract and find out who it is and everything through the trances!"

"Bah, superstition," Gumbute said, waving a hand dismissively, "no doubt they just like pot plants."

Ali was about to correct him but just shrugged. He was close enough, even if he didn't realise it.

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**Chapter 2 coming next week!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Yay, second chapter! I confess I almost forgot about it, what with uni starting again this week and having a garage sale today and work and learning a new language and everything. Uni won't really impact on my writing as I've already written the draft of this story, I just need to go through and thoroughly edit it.**

**Hope you enjoy it!**

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The messenger stepped out of the darkness into the brilliant shaft of light entering through the square opening three storeys above. He was well-dressed, with silk covering even the great expanse of his stomach. As a messenger, one would expect him to be quite lean, but long ago he was entitled the use of a magic carpet. Being a messenger for the son of the brother of the wife of the king had many benefits.

The dark room seemed empty, yet he could feel a presence and knew he was being watched. He was extremely vulnerable, but magic carpets tend to go to people's heads, and as a result the messenger felt he was far superior to the rabble he was being forced to deal with. **(1)**

There was a sudden short high-pitched fit of giggling that bounced off the walls and seemed to come from all directions. From the sound of muffled protests and meaty impacts, the giggler was stopped using a degree of force.

The messenger blinked several times in surprise and tried to peer into the black shadows before announcing his intent.

"Hashishim of Alah Amut, I am a messenger from Al Khali," he began, standing tall with self importance. "By Offler's grace I shall remain untouched and unharmed – "

He was cut short as a barrage of throwing knives, darts, bolts and arrows embedded themselves in his body.

The Hashishim took such declarations as a traditional suicide request. **(2)**

Ali Dhin waited as the body fell to the ground and watched dispassionately as a couple of black clad people dragged it away. He then stood in the same place and waited with his hands hanging loosely by his side. He didn't want to give them any reason to believe he was trying to commit suicide.

"Hashishim, I am a messenger for Lord Gumbute of Ankh-Morpork, he wishes to use your services," Ali stated in a clear, unwavering voice.

For some reason, he got the impression that the shadows were having a conference, despite there being nothing but silence. After a few moments a voice spoke, close enough to make him jump, but the speaker was still hidden in darkness.

"What does your lord require of us?"

The voice was soft and deep, but had an air of menace and… snakeyness to it.

"He wishes you to assassinate a number of people in Ankh-Morpork, people whom the local Assassins Guild refuse to take contracts on."

"How many people?"

"Twenty-seven."

There was a pause as the voice considered the information.

"We only perform one assassination for each contract," said The Voice.

"My lord is willing to take out twenty-seven individual contracts and pay after each is completed," said Ali. He wished they could settle the details in a room that had chairs and more light. Lots more light, the shadows were beginning to bother him.

"Before," The Voice replied in a tone that suggested any argument would have painful consequences… involving feathers, "we require payment before we undertake an assassination."

"I'm sure my lord would agree with that arrangement," Ali assured the speaker.

He then pulled a small parcel from his travelling pack and held it out to the darkness before him.

"When will you be ready to come to Ankh-Morpork?" he asked.

The shadows seemed to condense into a solid form; a man dressed entirely in black, carrying various sharp implements of death, and with a long cobra snake lazing across his shoulders. He wasn't any taller than an average man but he was certainly intimidating, in the way that only well-trained assassins can be. Ali noticed the scar that marred the right cheek of his deathly pale face and how the feverishly bright blue eyes seemed to bore into his soul, (and weren't very impressed by what they saw, the man wore a perpetually jaded expression).

"We will leave the same time you do," the Hashishim replied before taking the package with sheer, undiluted glee in his eyes.

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It had been a few weeks since _The Impress_ had left for Klatch, but when she docked at Ankh-Morpork she was almost six days early.

A few sailors were hanging together a few dozen metres away and smoking one pipe between them. They weren't at the pub tonight as they had to get the ship out to sea at first light. All of them had tattoos, except for one who was morbidly afraid of needles, (but was actually the most fearless of the bunch).

As they observed the unloading of _The Impress_, they noticed that her crewmen seemed exhausted and beaten, as if they'd just struggled through a storm, though the ship was in perfect condition. They were also quite tense, glancing over their shoulder every few moments and jumping when one of them accidentally dropped a crate. It seemed as though they just wanted to get the job over and then get the hell out of there. A few crates were loaded onto a cart and then a strangely well-dressed man walked down the gangplank.

He wore a tailored pinstripe suit and to the sailors looked every bit like a butler. He seemed weary, but also quite apprehensive, waiting impatiently as the crewmen finished loading. He glanced around and stared accusingly at the sailors, daring them to say something before climbing into the cart which then immediately rumbled off. The man's behaviour and the fact it was the middle of the night aroused the sailor's suspicions, but they were not bothered enough to stop any smuggling, piracy, or conspiracy that the man was almost certainly a part of. Besides, their ship was leaving tomorrow, and there was a bad wind blowing which meant it was a good idea to not get involved. The man only _looked _suspicious, that doesn't necessarily mean he's doing something bad right? You can't judge a book by its cover my gran always used to say.

They went back to their communal smoke and didn't notice as four black shadows flitted off the boat onto the dock and then away into the city.

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**1 - ** The original hashashins on roundworld were believed to have consumed hashish due to their name, but it is more likely that the Caliph called them that to denote that they were just rabble or disreputable people.

**2 - T**he Hashishim enjoyed irony, but this only served to make them even more deadly – legend has it they were picked for their ability to appreciate it.

**Reviews would be nice :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3!**

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Up in his office at Pseudopolis yard, Sam Vimes was doing paperwork. He couldn't help it! Vetinari had made some sarcastic comments, and in a moment of insane optimism he'd believed he was actually capable of getting through some of it. It was extremely difficult ploughing through it all, so he'd resorted to using a shovel. Most of it, he realised guiltily, was outdated, but at least it meant he could burn it and create some actual free space. (Yes, you could now actually see parts of his desk and even a patch of floor!). After the first hour he was looking for an escape. The only problem was there was nothing to do.

It had been a quiet day. In fact, the whole week had been quiet, silent even. Apart from the usual traffic offenses, bar brawls and various unlicensed activity, nothing had happened!

Of course, you couldn't go chasing after criminals all the time. Watchmen had to have a break some time… but for a whole week? It did mean he could get home at a reasonable hour and spend time with Sybil and Sam. There was absolutely nothing wrong with having a break… and getting rid of paperwork.

_Who am I kidding? I'm bored out of my brains_, he admitted with a sigh.

It's not that he wanted something big and terrible to happen, he just wanted there to be something… going on. He almost wouldn't mind if the wizards made the Brass Bridge disappear again, at least he could get angry about it. He much preferred anger to boredom. It also meant he could go down there and be angry, instead of staying in his office.

With a start he realised he'd been staring out the window while lost in thought. With another sigh, this time more emphatic, he lit a cigar before getting back to shovelling paperwork.

A few minutes later however, Vimes was disturbed by a knock at the door. Observing the raised floorboard, which caused a column of paper to fall over, Vimes called for Fred to enter.

Sergeant Colon walked in with his helmet under his arm. It was a hot day so he was sweating profusely and his face was red. It gave him the appearance of being extremely nervous. (footnote: or highly constipated, depends on which way you look at it).

"Reporting on a crime scene, sir," Colon said after saluting, "Mani Badang has been found murdered, down an alley near the cattle yards where he works. Stabbed through the throat. Cheery thinks he died instantly."

"Have you found any suspects?" asked Vimes.

"Me an' Nobby talked to a few people from where he works. They couldn't give us any suspects 'cause Badang was apparently well liked and stayed out of trouble. Some people gave him a hard time a few months ago 'cause he's black Howondiland, but they stopped after he got help from a witchdoctor and cursed them."

"Maybe they wanted revenge. Were there any witnesses to the murder?"

"None, sir. Cheery says he was killed at about 6 am today. A young woman found the body about half an hour later," Colon said, shaking his head. The woman had known Mani on an intimate level and was understandably shocked and upset about his death.

"Hail Spoon, the man who committed suicide yesterday, he died from a stab to the throat, yes?" asked Vimes.

"Yes, we wrote it off as a suicide because he was one of them really irritating Omnian types. We'd warned him a few times, but it seems he didn't listen," Colon replied.

Vimes may have been subconsciously wishing that this was something big happening, but he had a gut feeling the deaths were connected.

"Maybe it wasn't suicide. Igor's done the autopsy on Spoon, if the wound on Badang was made by the same sort of weapon then they could have the same murderer," Vimes reasoned, watching Fred's face light up in realisation, "Has Angua been to the scene yet?"

"I passed her on the way back to the yard," Fred said.

"Right, send her in when she gets back," Vimes requested. A few moments later, he wished he'd asked Fred for some help. He tried to lift a huge mound of flattened wood pulp but his shovel snapped.

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"They're not the same person, but they had a very similar smell," Angua reported.

"Do you think they worked at the same place?" asked Vimes, examining the ground for any clues the investigation team might have missed. He had given up on paperwork and decided to escape down to the crime scene.

The body had been lying at the mouth of an alleyway. A pool of already dry blood and a line of chalk were the only evidence anything had ever been there, the ground was too hard to leave footprints. Igor had taken the body back to the watch house to perform an autopsy, but he was already certain that the murder weapon was the same as that used on Spoon.

"They're both men and have been on the sea recently. There was an older more pervasive smell that suggested they'd been living in a sandy place for quite a while, and another scent… similar to someone who chews tobacco, but not quite. Its familiar but I can't place it," Angua informed him.

"Could you follow the trail?"

"No, they both went through the abattoir," Angua replied apologetically.

Vimes nodded in understanding. It was close to full moon.

"So they're connected in some way. Probably both came from overseas, maybe Klatch or Betrobi. Whoever they are they certainly know how to kill, but I doubt they'd be Assassins, those bastards like to get people while they sleep. I suppose I'll have to send a notice to Downey. He'd be interested in this."

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**as usual, please review, or else, i'll do it myself!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 - thanks to AcerJ for pointing out some mistakes which have been promptly edited. See, i listen to your reviews! :)**

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The streets of Ankh-Morpork were bustling as usual. People were crowding around market stalls, others were trying to make their way through the mass of bodies, and carts were attempting to manoeuvre through the traffic to make their deliveries on time. It was another unseasonably warm spring day and the heat only added to people's irritability.

Percy, third son of Lord Eorle, observed the crush from his seat in the shade of a chimney on top of a bakery. The pleasant scent of cooking bread wafting from the chimney almost overpowered the stench from the streets. As an assassin, he was well equipped to travel along the rooftops to avoid the crowds. He especially enjoyed the feEling of being above it all, and not just another part of the crowd. It made him feel like he was an actual lord. He rarely felt this way at home where he was the youngest, or at the guild where he was just another student.

His stomach started to growl, despite the fact it was only 10 o'clock, so he decided he might as well go and have a coffee at one of the more upmarket cafés. He reluctantly set off, leaving the cool of the shade behind.

After a few minutes of jumping from roof to roof, he glanced down to see the streets were much less crowded and reasoned it would be easier going on the ground.

People were dressed much better in this part of the city. He smiled at a couple of young ladies walking together, delicate lace parasols protecting their fair skin from the sun. They giggled to each other and threw flirtatious glances back at him. Walking behind them was a strangely dressed man, all in black and glittering with the amount of weapons he carried. Percy believed he was likely a bodyguard of the ladies. Assassins wore only the latest fashions after all. Percy glanced behind him to watch the ladies walking away, appreciating the way their hips swung from side to side as they moved.

All of a sudden he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his throat and everything went dark.

Percy opened his eyes and saw the bodyguard walk away down the street. He put a hand to his neck, and with a shock felt a hole in the hollow under his jaw, where the jugular vein ran. He looked down to see his body on the ground, blood from his wound spreading out onto the cobblestones. Some people were rushing over to it. They turned his former body over, but all present knew he was gone. Percy searched for the bodyguard again and watched as the man turned a corner instead of following the ladies.

PERCY OLIVER EORLE? asked Death.

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Vimes didn't like Eorle, but he understood how devastated the man was, seeing his son's corpse lying on a table in the small cool room which acted as the watch mortuary, (and also doubled as Igor's workplace). No father should have to bury their son.

Eorle was silent, staring down at his son, and holding the cold hand.

"The watch are investigating, but we won't know who did it for a while yet," Vimes said sympathetically.

He knew Eorle was shocked and decided it was best he be given some space. He climbed the stairs to the main room and found Angua waiting there. She shook her head when she saw him.

"They used peppermint bombs, sir," she said. Her eyes were red and Vimes knew that all she wanted to do right now was go straight to bed.

"Was it the same person?" he asked.

"It was a different person again, but smelt just like the others. Also, before he dropped the bomb, he met up with three other people; the two from before and a woman. She smelt the same as them so I'd say they're all from the same place and working together."

"Very good, thankyou sergeant. You can take the rest of the day off."

Angua saluted wearily before heading towards the locker room. Cheery then caught Vimes' attention.

"Sir, Lord Downey is waiting in your office," she said, knowing this was bad news.

He groaned and trudged up the stairs to his office. Downey was sitting patiently in the chair across from his desk, and another younger assassin was standing in the corner.

"What's he here for?" Vimes asked bluntly and gestured towards the assassin.

"Mr. Castel is here to assist me, he keeps the records of all our contracts," explained Downey.

Vimes examined the assassin and noticed how clerk-like he looked. Everything was in place, his hair was neatly plastered to his head and there wasn't a spot of dust on his suit. He also held a plain, black suitcase

"We've searched through our records and found no contracts on Hail Spoon or Mani Badang," Downey continued, "Mr Castel is certain there were none on Percy either, though we haven't had a chance to look. None of my assassins have claimed to be responsible for their inhumation."

"We found one witness to Percy's murder, Miss Booker," Vimes informed Downey. "She didn't actually see the person kill Percy but did see him fall down and assumed the man who was walking away did it. Apparently he was dressed all in black and carrying a lot of weapons. She believes he was a Klatchian because he had a short black beard and dark eyes, but was quite pale. She also claims she saw a sword wrapped around his waist, as though it was bendable. Do you know what sort of weapon that might be?"

"It sounds like an Urumi, a coiled sword that was used by the Rajput warriors of an ancient Hersheban jungle empire. It's difficult to use and makes only superficial wounds, but a master can turn it into a very deadly weapon. A slash to the neck can certainly kill someone," Downey said.

"So he's not one of yours then?" Vimes asked.

"Well, it doesn't sound like anyone I know. Castel?" asked Downey. Castel shook his head, saying nothing.

"Assassins are trained to be more subtle. Carrying out an inhumation on the street is considered to be dishonourable and quite humiliating for the target. We have quite a few members, but I'm sure I'd know if anyone was using an Urumi. We shall stay on the alert for anyone fitting the description. We shall, of course, also assist the watch in any way we can," Downey said, knowing the idea of the watch and the assassins working together would irritate Vimes.

"I'm sure you will. It would be bad for business if anyone could just kill when they felt like it," Vimes said wryly.

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**Review please! Anonymous reviews are allowed, so even if you don't have an account you can still tell me how awesome i am! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5.**

**This is a short one, pretty much just Gumbute thinking about things. I might post another chapter tomorrow actually, seeing as this is short and I currently have some time on my hands!**

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Ali Dhin brought the times inside and presented it to Gumbute along with breakfast. Gumbute absolutely refused to sit down and just eat, he needed to do something with his eyes. There was a nice article on the front page about Percy Eorle's death.

He would give Lord Eorle his sympathies. After all, it wasn't his fault his son was an indiscreet fool. Gumbute attempted to bury the memory of his trousers splitting when he once tried to mount his polo pony. Percy had laughed and brought attention to the fact, and he had paid for it.

Clarity, an assassin's guild launderer, had warned Gumbute his trousers were in need of repair, but that had only incriminated her in his eyes. She was on The List.

Gumbute took out The List from his front pocket and crossed out the names of Hail The One And Only God Om Spoon, Mani Badang and Percy Oliver Eorle. He then sat back with a smile of pleasure. Three out of twenty-seven assassinations completed, and the hashishim had only been in Ankh-Morpork for three days! He would have to give his manservant a raise, provided, of course, the hashishim went home peacefully when they were done.

He recalled his meeting with the hashishim's apparent leader, Xavier. The man had a snake! It had sat on his shoulders and flicked out its tongue and stared at him with its unblinking eyes. It's master was no better. He seemed thoroughly bored and said only as much as necessary to answer Gumbute's questions. Gumbute had quickly stopped asking them and had decided to get the business over with.

It was difficult for Gumbute to be unnerved by anyone, but the hashishim leader had succeeded just by appearing in the lounge room, unnoticed until the moment he seemed to just… exist, right by Gumbute's chair.

Gumbute now made Ali deal with the hashishim. He had met with them last night to give them their fourth target.

It was remarkable, all they needed was a name and just by looking at their pot plants they knew exactly where to find them! He wasn't sure how they did it, and had a suspicion Ali was deliberately neglecting to ask the hashishim, but for now he'd decided to believe it was magic.

They also charged a standard price for assassinations. It didn't matter how hard someone was to kill, their social standing, or how rich they were. Gumbute wouldn't consider the life of many people to be worth more than a dollar, but at least the hashishim were cheap compared to the Assassins' Guild. Just talking about a possible contract carried a fee!

He wondered what the hashishim would spend their money on. Ali had mentioned an ancient fortress, more cave than building, they'd inhabited for thousands of years. Obviously the money would be spent on its upkeep, as well as food, weapons and the odd bit of clothing every now and then. Perhaps they also used it to pay the servants that were brave enough to work there, or maybe they just bought slaves?**(1)** Gumbute performed some maths calculations, estimating that at least half the money would still be left over. They didn't seem to live like normal people, so the idea of them spending it all on the latest fashions or saving up to buy another castle seemed a little far-fetched.

A garden! They liked pot plants, so maybe they had a garden full of plants. A huge paradise garden with exotic and beautiful plants and animals… and beautiful young maidens. Didn't the Klatchian kings have those harems? Well, I'm sure they wouldn't think a garden was paradise without it being full of beautiful women who fed them grapefruit.

Gumbute was enjoying his little fantasy. However, he too busy imagining himself being there and so neglected to actually include the hashishim. Had he done so he would have realised how outrageous the whole idea was.

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**(1**) Actually, servants are quite eager to work for the hashishim. Sure they're creepy and strange people, but also awe-inspiring, and there is no better way to gain respect at a dinner party than to tell the other guests you work for them. They also didn't abuse their servants unlike others... *ahem* Lord Gumbute *ahem*

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**I was going to post this with a long angry tirade here about not being appreciated because only one person is actually bothered to review (yes, I can see how many people are visiting this story), but I wont and instead I'll try to keep it short.**

**Anonymous reviews are enabled, which means you don't need an account.**

**I'm asking for more people to review, even if its just to say "its good" because I'm starting to question why I spend so much time on my stories (which I will never get paid for or anything) when no one acknowledges them.**

**I'm not going to stop this story until I've finished it, but if you want any more stories from me in the future then you should tell me so.**

**Sorry to say that.**

**If you are angry at me for this, feel free to tell me so, I like flames as they're hilarious!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**Another short one, but it's a week early so I'd say it makes up for the length.**

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Boniface the dwarf added a dab of glue to the piece of gold painted plastic before joining it to another, and then waited for it to set. He then put the crown away in the large prop box and went to finish his sandwich, which was sitting half eaten on a crate.

"You're the last one here Boni, so I'll give you the keys and you can do lock up," said the stage manager as he passed. "You'll be all right won't you?"

The assassins had made a few attempts on Boniface Hapisonson, but it's safe to say they never got any further than that. It was truly astounding what he could do with just a handkerchief and some spare change.

"Nah, I'll be fine. Apparently they refuse to take anymore contracts on me. Shame really, I quite enjoyed our little… encounters," Boniface said grinning.

"Alright. Later Boni," the manager said before leaving.

Boniface sat in silence and finished his sandwich. He'd go around and blow out all the lights and make sure everything was packed away before going home.

As he moved backstage he heard a door close. It was done quietly but Boniface had good hearing. He pulled out his fake-looking dagger and moved towards the area.**(1)** It couldn't be a licensed thief as the theatre had paid its annual protection fee.

He walked cautiously to the door, glancing around the whole area for any sign of movement. Just because the assassins said they wouldn't kill him didn't mean he believed them. They could change their minds.

Closing the door could have been used as a distraction, so he kept an eye out for any darker shadow in the dimly lit place. In the corner of his eye he caught movement and brought his knife up to attack.

* * *

Mr Johns waited in the alleyway as Mr Firth finished robbing the house. It wasn't really an alleyway. It was only about 10 metres long and was just a means of getting access to the back of the house and the shop in front of it. Alleyways were meant to be shady places… filled with shadows, and bins and stuff. This one was well lit and clean except for an upturned bucket at one end. You could see both streets it was connected to, with people walking past and being able to see everything. Some children had even walked through it earlier, it was that ordinary and unintimidating. Obviously you couldn't have shady alleyways all the time. You needed some normal ones to make the bad ones stand out more, or else the bad ones would just become ordinary… right? Anyway, it was just another word for a small street.

He idly kicked at the brick wall. Mr Firth was a good thief, but it was because he thoroughly searched each and every single place that could possibly hold something valuable. He would open each individual book on a bookshelf to see if there was any money in them. He'd also take the time to put them back. Mr Johns shook his head. Mr Firth was unusually polite for a thief.

Mr Johns had been with the thieves' guild for over fifteen years now, but had spent just as many years as an unlicensed thief in Sto Lat, Quirm and Pseudopolis. The watch in all cities had begun to recognise him, so one day he had decided to go to Ankh-Morpork, a place he had been avoiding like someone avoids dessert – saving the best until last. He had been quite successful until he ran into the guild, literally. They had threatened to cut off his hands but he had managed to impress them after escaping from their inescapable cells, so was able to make an agreement with Boggis and become a member.

He had begun to pace when he noticed a man standing at one end of the alley. Just by looking at him Mr Johns could tell he would be trouble. Turning his head to quickly glance behind him, he saw another person, a woman, blocking the other end, trapping him. She looked no less dangerous than the man, perhaps more so. He pulled out a pair of knives and hoped Mr Firth would hurry up. He could hold his own in a fight, but these people looked like professionals.

He noticed a shadow envelop him but when he looked up it was too late to stop death descending.

* * *

(**1) I**t only looked fake, but many could testify that it certainly wasn't a harmless rubber prop.

* * *

**A bit dark, but then again this is about assassins.**

**Oh yes, reviewers will get moist delicious cake! (AcerJ I owe you at least 6 cakes by now!) :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 - this was 2 weeks late due to lack of internet, so i'm sorry for anyone who was disappointed. **

**This chapter has been perfected with the aid of the lovely AcerJ**

* * *

"It's definitely top priority now. The murders are all done by the same group of people and I have a feeling it won't stop any time soon," Vimes said.

Fred nodded in agreement as he went to place Vimes' coffee on a pile of paper on his desk. The pile was dangerously lopsided however, so he gave it to the commander to hold.

Two more people had been killed in the last two days.

Mr Egret Johns had died like the others, a stab to the throat. He'd been found slumped on an upturned bucket in an alleyway. A clean knife was found at the scene, identified as his by his colleague Mr firth, suggesting he had expected trouble. He'd died before he had a chance to use it.

Boniface was another matter entirely. He'd fought back, as evidenced by the many wounds inflicted on him. Igor had examined his corpse but was unable to identify the weapons used. Three parallel slashes had ripped his back open, and then the same weapon, possibly claws, or knives on the end of a rope, had been wrapped around his neck, strangling and piercing at the same time.

Iron spikes were also found deep in his body. A great amount of force would have been needed to achieve such depth, but the spikes were pointed at both ends so couldn't be from a conventional crossbow.

The thieves' and actors' guilds had both vowed they would support the watch. They'd lost good members and felt an urge to avenge their deaths. Accidents couldn't be helped, but being slaughtered in an alleyway, or cut up like grass, was no way to go.

The assassins were also appalled at the crass manner of the killings. The killers just wanted them dead and didn't care what they had to do to make it so. They even killed in public which was, (and this is an extreme thing for an assassin to say) Bad Taste!

The assassins were disconcerted however. If the killers could inhume Boniface, an infamously difficult target, then what did that say about their skill and experience? Vimes made sure his watchmen knew the killers were dangerous, possibly all heavily armed and highly trained. He didn't want one of his men… er, people getting killed when they tried to arrest them. If they even found one that is.

Angua was still having difficulty with tracking and no one else had seen anyone fitting their description. Vimes had a theory they wore elaborate costumes when they wanted to assassinate someone, so when they actually went out to, say, buy some bread, they wouldn't be recognised. He was probably wrong, but he couldn't see how they could move through the entire city to find their target and not be seen.

Unless they were going underground.

* * *

The sun was beginning to set, but that didn't deter William De Worde as he walked towards Pseudopolis Yard.

Five deaths that he'd managed to discover were performed by the same group of four. A group of serial murderers roaming the street and killing in broad daylight! This story would definitely go on the front page. Perhaps an editorial and tributes to the dead as well. Otto had tagged along in the hopes of a good iconograph.

"Ah excellent, Commander may I have a comment about the serial killers currently running rampant in our streets?" William asked, hoping Vimes would take the bait.

"No comment. Dorfl, get them out of here."

Practically nothing had happening in Ankh-Morpork for the past week or two, and William had been desperately searching for some news. Now that something was actually happening he wasn't going to be brushed off so easily.

"But Commander, the good citizens of Ankh-Morpork are living in fear in the belief they will be next! Can't you at least give an indication of how the case is progressing? That is of course, if the watch are actually on the case," William said before he was pushed onto the street.

A few moments went by and just when he was about to leave, Vimes came to the door.

Vimes doubted people in this city cared that much about the killings and knew for certain they weren't good citizens. De Worde would sensationalise the whole thing and make it bigger than it actually was, but he was buggered if he was going to let them say the Assassins were the ones doing the investigating.

"Alright, fine, I'll comment. Right, um… The watch is working hard to catch the suspects, with assistance from the assassins, thieves and actors, but investigations are continuing," he said blandly.

There was a flash as Otto took a picture and Vimes was temporarily blinded. William wrote the quote in his notepad. It would do as an official statement, but he wouldn't pass up a better comment, especially if Vimes didn't mean to say it.

"So you know who the killers are?"

"We have suspects, but we won't know whether they are guilty until we've caught and tried them."

"Could you provide a description? Perhaps more witnesses may come forward and aid the watch," William suggested.

Vimes hesitated. They only had one witness and they really needed to find the whereabouts of the suspects, but he didn't want to have everyone start accusing people because they looked even remotely Klatchian.

"All I can say is that they are possibly heavily armed with strange weapons, and are highly trained professionals. I advise the public to stay away from them if possible, don't try to catch them yourself," he warned, looking into the distance as though imagining himself talking to a crowd.

"Is that all Commander?" William asked, disappointed.

"That's all I'm telling you. Goodbye," Vimes said before stalking back inside.

It was actually rather depressing. That's all they really had, and five people had died. How many more would be killed until the watch caught them?

* * *

Angua trotted along the street in wolf form, following the strange, distinctive scent of one of the suspects. She'd picked it up from the back of a kebab shop. It stood to reason they had to go outside for food sometime. She just hoped they didn't decide to use a peppermint bomb.

The trail led her to a manhole. _So they use the underground_, she thought. It made sense. They couldn't risk too many people seeing them.

Angua glanced around before changing back into a naked woman, and climbing down the hole. She didn't want to risk anyone seeing her either.

The smell of kebabs was stronger down here as the wind rarely had a chance to disturb the air. She followed the trail as a wolf, nose pressed to the ground to better detect the trail over all the other smells of the sewer. It went on through the twisted tunnels for some time and she was glad she would be able to smell her way back, otherwise she'd be hopelessly lost.

When she turned a corner she found a kebab lying on the ground. A few rats had begun to devour it, but it had obviously been dropped only recently.

Or left to distract her.

Someone dropped down from the roof behind her, and she twisted around to face the man, growling fiercely.

Normally people would freeze in terror at the growl of a werewolf, but the pale man didn't seem to mind. In fact, he slowly held his hand out to her, intending to let her sniff it as dogs do. A snake appeared over his shoulder and stared as Angua tentatively put her nose up to his fingers. She wasn't quite sure why she did it, but she told herself it was to fool the man into believing she was just a dog. Something told her he knew what she really was.

The human part of her brain wondered why she didn't bite, but she felt an overwhelming need to please the man. The inner wolf wanted to obey.

"Be a good girl," he said softly in accented Morporkian, looking directly into her eyes, into her mind. "Don't follow the scent."

She wagged her tail and sat and watched as he and his snake disappeared around the corner, leaving the kebab for the rats.

The human part screamed at her not to listen, to follow him. She knew she had to find out where they were living, but it was too late. She couldn't disobey.

* * *

**Yes, moist delicious cake…. With blue bio-fluorescent icing! (Now almost 99.99% xylene free!)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

* * *

Vimes surveyed the room of the eighth victim, Catherine Atonic. Her body was lying on the bed where she had been found, one arm resting outside the covers. She seemed peaceful, as though she was still just sleeping, but her pale façade was evidence she would never wake.

Reg Shoe was disappointed she had "given up so easily." However it took a special kind of will to live to be a zombie. Catherine was at an age when death was calmly accepted.

The maid who found her had assumed she'd died of old age first. That was until she noticed the 2 small puncture marks up near her elbow. She had believed it was a vampire and came down the watch house screaming bloody murder. Cheery had investigated and found a poisonous snake was the cause.

Vimes had no idea how a snake could survive in Ankh-Morpork, let alone why it would bite a sleeping old lady in the middle of the night. The Suspicious Bastard part of his brain was certain it was a murder, so he'd called in Angua.

"A man, one of the four, was standing right here," Angua said, standing in the corner near the window, on the opposite side of the room from the bed.

"Did he touch her, or anything?" Vimes asked.

"No, he just entered through the window and stood here. I'd say the snake is his though. It slid… er, slithered away from him along the floor," Angua said as she ran her finger along the path the snake took, "up the bed post here, straight to her arm, bit her then returned to the man. He then waited for a while before leaving."

"He was making sure she died. A true professional," said a voice at the doorway.

Vimes spun around to find an assassin standing there. Constable Shoe edged closer to Vimes, quite prepared to take any hits for him. The assassin held up a hand in a peace gesture.

"Lord Downey has sent me to assist the watch," he explained. "I am Mr Yoh, and I specialise in eliminating unlicensed assassins."

"Right, well, Mr Yoh, is there anything new you could possibly tell us about the four killers?" Vimes asked.

He didn't want an assassin's help, but he knew the watch couldn't catch the killers on their own. Trained assassins knew a lot more about 'inhuming' people than most of the watch and would therefore know a few more things to look for. Besides, he wanted to be a sadistic bastard and put the man on the spot.

"All of them have killed with a blade in their left hand, possibly strapped onto their wrist as the blade can only enter at an angle the forearm can achieve," Mr Yoh demonstrated by holding a pencil between his ring and middle fingers. "It's probably like punching someone."

"A killing punch," Angua said, mildly stunned.

"So what does that mean? Are they all left handed? Should we go around looking for people with blades strapped to their left arms?" Vimes asked sarcastically.

He was already becoming irritated at the assassin's voice. It suggested that what Yoh said was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I'd say they're right handed. It would be really inconvenient trying to write or shake hands if you had a knife getting in the road all the time," reasoned Angua.

"You wouldn't make friends for long that's for sure," agreed Vimes.

"It certainly appears that they are contract assassins. They're not wearing that just to look cool," Mr Yoh said.

"I've identified the smell too, sir. It's hashish, from the Cannitbe plant."

"Cannitbe? As in, can-it-be-real-what-I'm-seeing?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Hashish… professional assassins who are hired to kill and consume hashish… it rings a bell, but I'll have to do a search back at the library," Mr Yoh said.

"Right, Reg take some watchmen out to find people who grow or sell hashish, ask them if they've ever met anyone wearing black, heavily armed, possibly Klatchian in appearance, and with a blade strapped to their left arm," Vimes ordered.

Constable Shoe snapped off a salute. A few threads came undone but his arm managed to stay attached. He then marched out.

"I shall also take my leave and report to Lord Downey. He'll be upset to hear of Cat's murder. She was well-liked and helped out with the female students at the Guild," Mr Yoh explained before he too exited.

"Does Cheery know what sort of snake it was?" Vimes asked Angua.

"No, but I think it's fairly big," she answered.

"Right, let's see if we can follow the trail shall we?" Vimes said with false enthusiasm.

Angua hesitated for a moment before going into an adjoining room to change into the wolf. Vimes saw her uncertainty and took it as an unwillingness to come across another peppermint bomb. The killers were fond of using them. Angua had no way of knowing when she would run into one. It was like a scent mine, she would just follow the trail and everything would be fine and then suddenly she's yelping with her paws covering her nose.

Angua followed Vimes downstairs to try and pick up the trail. It was the snake man she'd met in the underground. She hoped she didn't come across him, she really didn't want him to tell her she was a Bad Girl. Her loyalty to the watch seemed to tie with her urge to obey him. _No, Angua! He's a stranger, a killer! Focus on your duty._ She had to find him… and yet, the wolf in her was resisting.

She found it difficult to concentrate on the scent, and kept trying to follow other trails. _FOCUS, follow HIS trail! It's not that hard, _her human mind screamed at the wolf.

Then suddenly, and strangely to the utter relief of her subconscious, her nose exploded in an overload of smell – a peppermint bomb.

* * *

**REVIEW to recieve Moist Delicious Cake! With vanilla flavouring extracted from the now extinct wob-wob bird!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**Uni essays and assignments crept up and ambushed me. I only managed to escape with sleep deprivation, pimples, a deeper furrow on my brow, and a resolve never to procrastinate again.**

* * *

The street was filled with Morporkians, all watching the house burn. It was pretty good entertainment as far as they were concerned. Some people, mainly watchmen, had formed a bucket line to prevent the fire spreading, while golems took everything burning from the house and put it in a pile on the street. Some children ran and played around the bonfire, disregarding the enormous amount of heat radiating from it.

Once the remaining embers were smothered by the river water, the watch entered in the hope of finding a cause.

* * *

Nobby climbed the staircase to the second floor. Some steps were missing, but that didn't stop a watchman in his duty **(1**). He gingerly inched across the creaking and unstable floor to the nearest bedroom. There was a chest of drawers, but he was disappointed to find it completely empty. The room didn't seem used anyway and was probably a spare. When he inspected the only other bedroom it too seemed unused.

_Why would an empty house just suddenly catch fire? _He thought.

There was a sun room at the back and Nobby had to edge along the wall, avoiding a large hole, to get through the doorway. The fire had hit this room harder than the others. Half the floor had collapsed and a badly burnt lounge chair hung halfway over the edge. Nobby spied something wrapped in a blanket between the coffee table and another lounge chair. It was pretty big.

_Perhaps this is a clue_, he thought and pulled the fold of the blankets away.

Underneath was a body, but Nobby had seen enough in his lifetime, mostly on battlefields, and so promptly started searching it for anything valuable. Then he called out to Sergeant Colon.

"What've you found Nobby?" Fred asked, standing on the first floor and peering up at him through the hole.

"There's a body 'ere, Sarge. There's all these weapons and stuff too!"

"Nobby, how'd you get up there?" Vimes asked, standing on tiptoe to try and catch a glimpse of the body.

"I climbed the stairs, sir. Hey look, what's this?" Nobby asked and held up what looked like a small golden-brownish block.

"Stop touching the body and stand back, I want it left in… er, situ, so cheery can examine it properly."

Nobby put the block back and stood by the doorway. Cheery entered from the next room and looked at the crumbling floor of the second level.

"Are you sure it's safe to go up there, sir?" she asked uncertainly.

"You're right, let's have a scaffold built to support the floor just here… and get a ladder too! There's nothing in the other rooms, Nobby?"

"Nope, looks as though no one's used them."

"That's strange," Vimes said, watching as a quick makeshift support structure was built. It wasn't meant to last long - Detritus and Dorfl were the supporting columns.

"We'll need to take the body back for an autopsy, we'll need a crane or… winch, or something to get it down," Vimes added, wishing he was an engineer for a split second.

Cheery climbed up the ladder and then took photos of the body and surrounding area.

"It looks like it was meant to be a funeral pyre, sir. The body's been laid out with weapons and … this is hashish!"

"What? Hashish? Does he have a blade strapped to his left arm by any chance?"

"Hold on… no, but he does have a bendy sword wrapped around his waist. Do you think he's one of the four, sir? He fits the description the witness gave us," Cheery asked.

"We'll probably need Angua's nose to know for sure. I really hope it is," Vimes said. His heart was beginning to pound in his chest in excitement. They hadn't killed for over two days now and Vimes had started to think they'd finished their job and gone home.

"Commander Vimes," Mr Yoh said, entering the room.

"Good timing Mr Yoh, I think we've just found one of our killers. Well, his body anyway."

Mr Yoh raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Really? I was just coming to see you about them, I believe I know who they are. But first tell me, does he have a block of hashish with him," Mr Yoh asked, his voice seeming to indicate he already knew the answer.

"Yes," Vimes said anyway.

"Then it is possible that what we have on our hands, are Hashishim."

"Hashishim?"

"Hashishim. Insane assassins, possibly from Hersheba. They're believed to be the first organised group of assassins on the disc. Apparently they use hashish to go into trances and find their targets," Mr Yoh said.

"As in, visions that they can fly? Wouldn't the drugs ruin their accuracy, and sanity?" Vimes asked.

"Probably not, they're known to be quite deadly," Mr Yoh said uncertainly. "They've managed to inhume eight people already, including the infamous Boniface. Do you know how this hashishim died?"

"We're going to take the body back to the yard right now for Igor to do an autopsy," Vimes said.

When Mr Yoh left Vimes muttered to himself, "Not more bloody assassins."

* * *

"The Genuan Influenza, thir," Igor said.

"A cold? I thought only babies and old people died from that, how could he?" Vimes asked surprised.

He looked down at the body on Igor's table. It had been wrapped back in its blanket and as far as Vimes was concerned, looked fairly healthy… for a dead person.

"People on the plains are immune, but many on the Klatchian continent aren't. He seems to have also suffered some sickness while on the boat ride a week ago as well, which would have compromised his defences, sir," Igor said, forgetting his traditional lisp.

"So do you think the others would be sick as well?"

"Almost thertainly."

"That's probably why they haven't killed anyone for a while then. Maybe we could catch them before they regain their health and continue their work," Vimes said, more or less to himself.

"I must admire whoever did the surgery on this," Igor said, holding up the left hand of the corpse. It was missing the ring finger, with a sort of metal ringed hole where it once was.

"What is that," asked Vimes as he leaned in closer for a better look.

Igor inserted some tweezers into a cut in the man's wrist and pulled. A blade shot out of the hole, nearly cutting Vimes' cheek.

"They've replaced the finger with a retractable blade. Tendons are used to extend and withdraw it. They've been able to make it twice as long as the metacarpal because this end bit here, the sharp blade, slides into this shield or sheath here. They then all fit nicely within the hand, with no obvious sign he's got the hidden blade," Igor said, watching fascinated as he played with the tendons and made the blade go in and out.

"It must have hurt getting it there," Vimes said, mildly disgusted by Igor's actions.

"Very much so. Also, if you were to hit the exposed blade with a hard object, such as a sword, it would cause a fair amount of pain. Almost like breaking a finger."

"Why? How do they use it then?"

"There are no shock absorbers. The blow transmits directly up into the hand, and since it is attached to the tendons, the pain travels all the way up the arm as well. Bones would not create such a problem as they are too soft and it would be just like punching someone in the jaw, but anything denser and stronger, metal or stone for example, could cause problems.

"Thanks Igor, that might come in handy."

* * *

**(1)** - Or Nobby when he thought there were valuables somewhere


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

* * *

Cheery Littlebottom sat at the reception desk in Pseudopolis yard, absentmindedly swinging her feet and staring into space. It was two more hours until the end of shift and she was alone in the room, except for a few people toiling away at the desks to finish their reports.

She was bored. No watchman had brought someone in for the cells, no civilian had come in to complain and no one had come to just talk to her, for a whole hour! She'd also finished all her paperwork, so there was nothing to do – but sit and wait for there to _be_ something to do.

_At least they've gotten around to buying that high office chair I needed_, Cheery thought. She hadn't enjoyed standing for hours on a small crate in order to see over the desk. _I wish those equal heights activists would stop complaining about it though. I don't feel like a baby sitting in this, and it's much more comfortable than their alternative._

Cheery was shocked out of her thoughts as a man stumbled through the doorway. At first she thought he was just drunk, but a moment later she realised something was horribly wrong.

"Quick! Someone get a doctor, or Igor!" she shouted and sprung down from her chair.

Some watchmen ran outside to carry out her demand. Others caught the man as he fell down, laying him carefully down onto the floor. He struggled and tried to resist them.

"Sir, lie down. Calm down sir. What happened, what's wrong," Cheery asked the man.

"Snake! Snake!" he managed to gurgle out.

Foam was beginning to bubble from his mouth. He struggled to tear away the shirt from his neck. Cherry spotted two bleeding punctures, near the left artery. She knew it was probably too late to save him as he started to shake and convulse. Some of the watchmen tried to hold him down.

"Oh Gods, where's Igor?" one of them cried.

The man ceased moving. He seemed to just collapse, as though he'd lost an internal battle. Cheery felt for his pulse and finding none proceeded to perform CPR. It seemed like a futile action, but it had to be done. It might just turn out to have a million-to-one chance of success.

She continued pumping at his chest, checking for a pulse every few moments. She didn't know how long she did it, but when she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder she reluctantly ceased. The man was dead.

"Osmosis Jones," Carrot said. "He was a well known con-artist. Unlicensed, I wouldn't be surprised if the thieves had gotten to him."

Cheery sat back, completely spent from her exertions. For some reason, the image of Catherine Atonic's body came to the forefront of her mind and began jumping up and down for her attention.

"Mrs Atonic… she was bitten by a snake," she said as realisation dawned.

"Yes. Um, is that significant?" Carrot asked.

"This man, Jones, he just died of a snake bite!"

"Do you think they're connected? He's a victim of the Hashishim?"

"Poisonous snake bites are extremely rare here. I'd be surprised if they were completely unrelated. Igor will want to do an autopsy, but I'm sure the width of the bite on Mrs Atonic is the same size as Jones'. It could mean the same snake," Cherry said before standing up, arms and back aching. She needed a drink.

* * *

Gumbute smiled in amazement and delight.

The Hashishim had found Conan Mann!

Gumbute had been able to give them nothing but a dubious description and a name, and a false one at that. The assassins had failed even after two years of supposedly thorough searching, yet the Hashishim had found him in less than a day!

He gazed at the picture in the times again. He'd had orange hair and a beard when he made the mistake of conning Gumbute, but this Osmosis Jones was definitely the man.

_I wonder why nobody else uses pot plants like they do_, he wondered. _I wish I knew how they did it._

He'd had Dhin go out and buy him a pot plant that morning. It now sat on his desk and he bent down to its level, staring hard. It was a lovely chrysanthemum, blooming with four large yellow flowers. Gumbute tried concentrating harder on them and repeated the name Conan Mann in his head. No visions were forthcoming but his head began to throb, a sure sign that in the future he would have a headache.

He sat back and sighed. Perhaps he would have to start off small first. Then he remembered that the Hashishim had a garden.

_Maybe I need to start out in a large garden, surrounded by trees and flowers and birds and animals and… young women_, Gumbute thought.

* * *

**He was close, sort of, there were "pot" plants involved.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

* * *

Carrot, Constable Visit and Moe Bile, a new recruit, were all on patrol together. Normally Carrot would be paired up with Angua, but she was taking the day off to spend some quality relaxation time at a Quirmian spa resort. It had been a gift from Carrot for her birthday a month ago and, after some gentle prodding, she'd finally agreed to go.

Constable Visit was having a one sided theological debate with the poor recruit, who was wondering why his brother never mentioned this whenever he talked about being a watchman. Carrot walked along, smiling at people in the crowd and frequently stopping to talk to some. He knew almost everyone. Except for a strange man leaning against the wall across the street. He was heavily armed and carried the look of someone who shouldn't be bothered, unless you wanted to commit suicide. Carrot knew that he was a good chap inside however and so walked right up to him, manner open and friendly.

The man was shorter than Carrot by about a foot, but only turned his head to watch Carrot approach, seeming to size him up and coming to the conclusion that he was no threat. A look of confusion and suspicion crossed his face when Carrot introduced himself, and he straightened when Carrot asked for his name in return.

"um… er… well," he said as though unsure whether to give it. Looking into Carrots' face however he decided it couldn't hurt. "Shapur."

"That's an interesting name Shapur, you are Klatchian?"

Shapur nodded in response, unsure of how to deal with Carrot's friendly onslaught.

"Well Shapur, I'm sorry to bother you, but you appear to be carrying a large amount of weapons, and this device on your arm also seems to be quite deadly. It may be necessary, for public safety as well as your own, for you to hand them in to the watch for safe keeping. You will receive a receipt and may pick them up when you intend to leave the city," Carrot explained.

The man seemed stunned, looking down at his weapons. After some encouragement he began to follow Carrot to the nearest watch station, looking rather sheepish. Then two people, dressed in a similar fashion to Shapur, stepped out of the crowd and blocked Carrot's way.

"_Shapur, wake up. You've just been hypnotised by our enemy!" _the woman said in Klatchistani, then said to Carrot in Morporkian, "Stand back watchman, he's with us. Try to impede us and you'll be dead quicker than you can blink!"

At this point, Constable Visit noticed the strangers and came over to assist Carrot, to the relief of Lance-constable Bile.

"Hey, you look like that Hashishim we – "

He was cut short as the woman snatched her whip from around her waist and swung it, the end wrapping tight around Visit's throat. He gurgled, hands flying up to his neck to try and get it off. Carrot saw blood trickle down onto Visit's shirt and realised the whip had claws on the end.

_Boniface_, he thought, before stepping forward and punching the woman in the stomach. She doubled over and the whip loosened enough for Visit and Bile to pull it off.

The other hashishim then drew their weapons, ready to fight. Shapur loaded five iron spikes into the devices on each arm, while the other man unsheathed two swords from his back. Carrot withdrew, pulling the stricken Visit with him. The crowd also pulled back to a safe distance, but stayed close enough to watch the fight.

"We're done for! And on my first day too!" Moe cried in panic.

However a group of several assassins jumped down from the roof behind them and immediately engaged the hashishim.

They more or less failed.

Shapur was deadly accurate with his spikes, and the whip the woman used was more than capable of liberating daggers from their assassin owners. The last hashishim could wield two swords like no other, a machine of whirling metal and death. Moe was certain the blades passed through him once or twice.

The assassins, though outnumbering the hashishim two to one, soon realised the battle was going against them and ceased their attack. Two lay dead and the remaining four were wounded. The hashishim and assassins glared at each other across the street, neither side retreating or attacking.

Then Vimes turned up, followed by four troll and golem officers.

"Stop! Right there! You are under arrest by the Ankh-Morpork city watch," he shouted and held up his badge.

The whip shot out, wrenching the badge from his grasp. The woman caught it and smirked at the irony of a tiny defenceless shield before passing it to Two Swords.

Vimes doubled over in pain, cursing profusely, and wrapped the end of his shirt around his lacerated hand to try and stem the bleeding. He'd probably need stitches.

Suddenly the woman turned and grabbed hold of Two Swords' arm.

"_I'm hungry, I need a kebab,"_ she said, squeezing hard. _"I really need a kebab."_

"_Now?"_ he asked, a grimace briefly crossing his face as she increased the pressure of her vice-like grip.

"_Right now!"_

He nodded and she let go. He then pulled out a small black sphere, and threw it to the ground before Vimes and the assassins. They jumped back just in time to avoid the wall of fire as it shattered on the cobblestones.

When the smoke cleared they found the hashishim had disappeared.

* * *

Mr Goriff of Mundane Meals waited impatiently as his wife made kebabs. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought that the feared hashishim would come to his shop, let alone Ankh-Morpork! He fidgeted nervously, trying to look anywhere but in their direction without seeming rude. At least they weren't trying to kill anyone.

_Dear gods, that fellow over there is still happily eating his curry, completely unaware just who these people are!_

They stood patiently waiting… except for the woman who was hopping on the spot and chewing her whip. Goriff wondered if they all had different symptoms of madness.

Shapur carefully put his throwing spikes away, still embarrassed about his encounter with Carrot. He probably should have killed the man, and given more time he would have if Roxanne had not suffered from a sudden bout of inconvenient hunger. They seemed to afflict every long term user of hashish. They were always random, you could never predict when they would happen, and they were so sudden and crippling. One second you'd be fine, then next it was as though you couldn't live much longer if you didn't eat something.

The man serving them finally brought Roxanne her four kebabs and she nearly snatched it out of his hands. He seemed too scared to be offended. Shapur watched as their third member, Xavier, tried to give the man payment. He held up his hands, repeating that it was on the house, a gift. Xavier shrugged and placed the money on the bench top before leaving. Roxanne smiled gratefully at the man, mouth stuffed with food, before she turned to follow Shapur out.

Mr Goriff counted slowly up to a hundred, before asking his son to go on a delivery… and casually visit a watch house on the way back.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

* * *

The night was clear and mild. A full moon shone its silvery light down onto the Disc, almost as bright as day. In Ankh-Morpork the thieves appreciated the extra light to see what they were stealing, while ladies of negotiable affection positioned themselves to use light and shadow to their full advantage. Up in the Oblong office the Patrician gazed out his window at the city, marvelling at the rare beauty. It shone like a bed of diamonds.

Vimes was too busy sleeping to admire the way a shaft of moonlight reflected off the diamond of Sybil's wedding ring and made interesting geometric patterns on the ceiling. Someone was watching though. They giggled.

Vimes opened his eyes. He wasn't sure what had woken him but immediately began to feel a presence in the room. He carefully turned his head to try and get a glimpse of the owner of the presence.

Another giggle. Someone was sitting in the corner, on the desk. Vimes sprang out of bed and picked up his sword from his bedside table.

Sybil's snoring rhythm didn't falter in the slightest.

The person slipped off the desk and approached slowly, completely silent. Vimes couldn't make out their appearance as they remained in the shadows.

"There's no point trying to defend yourself with the sword. If I wanted to, I could kill you before you'd even raised it an inch," the figure said softly. It sounded like a man.

Vimes lowered the sword, relaxing his stance slightly. Inside he was as tense as the string on Detritus' piece-maker. He didn't know if the man had a crossbow trained on him, and didn't want to find out. If the man was an assassin or otherwise wanted to kill him, then he would have done so before Vimes could wake.

_How did he get past all my little… surprises?_

"Who are you?" Vimes whispered.

"Are you the commander of the city watch?" the man asked, sarcastically mimicking Vimes' whisper.

"Yes. I'm Commander Vimes," he answered.

"I've come to return your badge."

A hand shot out into the light, holding the small, slightly tarnished badge. The man then stepped forward. Vimes recognised him as the double-blade wielding man from yesterday. He looked even paler in the moonlight, almost glowing. What Vimes thought was a turban turned its head to look at him, flicking its tongue a few times before apparently going back to sleep.

_That's a snake! That's a gigantic snake, sitting on his head… and this guy's a Hashishim_! Vimes thought. _And… he's returning my badge? They took my badge, they Stole my Badge, and now he's returning it? He must be planning something!_

Vimes warily held out his hand and the Hashishim let the badge drop onto his open palm. Nothing painful or unexpected happened. It was almost disappointing.

"Why? Why would you come all the way here, just to return my badge? You also haven't told me who you are," Vimes whispered.

"Xavier," was all the Hashishim said in answer.

"Well… Xavier, do you know what the time is?"

"About 3 o'clock… why?" he replied, happily.

"Oh, nevermind, just wanted to know the time," Vimes replied. _I think he might be on something, like hashish? Why does he keep on smiling every time he looks at the roof, it's just light?_

The hashishim just stood, staring at him, and occasionally at the light pattern. Vimes wasn't sure what to do. He'd encountered insane people before, but they were usually running away or trying to kill him. He began to feel uncomfortable by the silence. Xavier seemed willing enough to speak when asked.

_Perhaps I can get him a little more talkative and see if I can find out who's hiring him_, Vimes thought, wishing he had some of Carrot's people skills.

"So Xavier… how did you get that scar," Vimes asked, immediately regretting it. He was certain the man would get offended.

To his great relief however, Xavier just shrugged, still sarcastically whispering but now with a tone that suggested he couldn't care less. The scar was probably just one of many.

"Our last leader, the old man of the mountain, Altair-I-Sabbah, wanted to prove to someone that even though he was an old man he was still the best. He made me fight him and managed to give this to me," Xavier said, gesturing to the scar. "I don't know how he did it, he was only using a staff."

"So he won?" Vimes asked.

"I don't know. He died of a heart attack right after he defeated me, so failed to prove anything really," Xavier said.

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you get in? I've got squeaky floorboards, beartraps, a butler," Vimes asked.

"What well disguised wolf pits filled with varying lengths of sharp wooden stakes that have been hardened by fire and coated with the poison of the Be Trobi puffer fish?" Xavier asked, confusion crossing his face.

"… What? I don't have any! Have you been, er… consuming hashish, lately?"

"Yes, we have someone to kill tomorrow," the Hashishim replied bluntly, revealing how great the divide was that separated them from the assassins.

"who!"

"I can't tell you that."

"Can you at least tell me who is hiring you?" asked Vimes angrily.

"No. I can't remember his name."

Vimes ground his jaw in frustration. Xavier said it so calmly, like he just didn't care. As a matter of fact, he seemed to be apathetic about everything. Vimes took a few deep breaths to try and get his temper under control.

"You didn't kill Wilikins did you? You know, the man downstairs?"

"I haven't touched him. He was ironing," Xavier replied, as if that was some sort of explanation.

"Ironing?"

"This is all very interesting, but I think I will go now. Good bye Commander Samuel Vimes," Xavier said abruptly before climbing out the window.

Vimes cautiously looked out, watching the Hashishim mount a horse and take off down the road.

_Well that was weird…_

Vimes didn't think much more about it as he darted into his son's bedroom. Sam jnr was fine, sucking on his thumb as he slept. Then something hit him. Sybil had stopped snoring before the hashishim had left…

_Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods!_

To his utter relief however, he found her sitting up in bed.

"Is Sam alright?" she asked, managing to keep panic out her voice.

"He's fine."

"Who was that? I woke up to you two talking? I think he left when he saw my eyes were open," Sybil said confused.

"Is Sir alright?" Willikins asked from the doorway.

"Wilikins! Are you alright? Did you see or hear anyone come in?" Vimes asked.

"No sir, I didn't. No one went past my door and no part of the house creaked. I apologise for my incompetence."

"No, its fine. He probably came in through the window," Vimes said. "He was one of the hashishim."

"Would Sir like me to stand guard in the hall way?"

"No, there's no way I'm sleeping now. I think I might just have breakfast."

"I shall join you Sam," Sybil said with a voice that suggested there was no point arguing.

* * *

**when i wrote this i thought it was hilarious... i think i might have been on something! **

**if you thought it was funny, or not, i'd love to know!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13 – a thankyou to acerJ – your comment made my day :)**

* * *

The embassy of the Agatean empire in Ankh-Morpork was built like a well-fortified castle. It was square and based on the principles of fang shoe. Bridges spanned fish ponds in gardens, walls were made of paper, and ninjas trained in the dojo, (and were frequently thrown through the dojo wall and into the pond outside). Four ninjas lived in the embassy, two of which were Lady Wei Ling's personal guards. In ninja years, they were still young, perhaps mid adolescence. However their inexperience did not matter all that much, as Lady Wei Ling was highly trained in martial arts herself. As she was a noble, she was allowed to use the razor sharp swords which took smiths years to learn to create. (**1)**

She was currently relaxing in her room, enjoying a cup of tea. Normally tea drinking would be done, or performed, in a ceremony, which could take up to 3 days to complete. However that was when guests were involved and she was drinking alone.

There was a commotion outside. It had been going on for quite a while. There was a yell, sort of like a drawn out, strangled crow caw, fading down into a low rattle. It was the dying cry of a ninja. It was the second she'd heard that morning. Whoever the intruders were, they had to be extremely skilled to get through two ninjas, no matter how inexperienced. But they wouldn't get through her.

She gracefully stood and walked over to a long wooden case by the window. It was made of sapient pearwood and so obediently opened its lid when she approached. Inside was a long red and gold sword, protected by silk padding. Lady Wei Ling reverently lifted it from the box and slowly unsheathed it. She then suddenly brought the blade around in a slash, then up, then down, then around again. After the short flurry of motions she held it up before her in the rest position, breathing deeply and imagining herself becoming one with the blade. She was ready for battle.

Once she was satisfied she knelt down by the table again to finish her tea. It would be at least another half hour before the two remaining ninjas were defeated, if the intruders weren't eliminated first. As she tucked her skirts underneath her something pierced her writst, causing her to jump back and unsheathe her sword in one fluid movement. A brown snake hissed at her from under the table before making a dash for the door to the garden. In a moment of anger and spite, Lady sliced the snake clean in half.

Already she could feel the effects of the venom. She briefly examined her wrist. The fangs had pierced the artery and blood spurted in pulses from the wound. If she was lucky, the bleeding could possibly have purged most of the poison from her system. She walked outside along the garden path to the small healer's house near a waterfall. Her balance and judgement became steadily more compromised as the poison coursed through her veins and it took a great amount of her considerable willpower to prevent herself from stumbling.

The healer, an old man with long white hair and beard, knew the Lady was ill as soon as she entered. Instead of bowing as customary, he quickly laid her on the bed before she could fall. She told him of the snake, but her words were slow and she was having difficulty forming the words. His heart fell. He'd never heard of such a snake in Ankh-Morpork or back in the Empire. It would be difficult to find a cure, and impossible to do so in time to save the lady.

Lady Wei Ling began to shiver uncontrollably. The poison was working fast. She looked into the eyes of the healer and knew nothing could be done. He made a drink to send her to sleep and soothe the pain. She wasn't afraid to die, but felt ashamed that she should do so because of a mere reptile without legs.

The healer waited for the Lady to stop moving before checking for a pulse. When he found none he promptly began packing all his necessities, including a small chest of gold. He then wrote a note explaining what had happened before leaving. For a healer in Agatea, failure was rewarded with execution.

* * *

The embassy president was adamant the Hashishim had executed Lady Wei Ling. Vimes glanced around the room, noting the strange brown snake that lay in two on the floor. None of the staff had disturbed the area apparently, but Vimes had the distinct feeling that other things were being hidden from him. The watch had only been allowed inside the room where the Lady had been bitten, as well as inside the healer's former residence. Cheery had been able to confirm that the dead snake was responsible.

He had been surprised the embassy had even allowed the watch inside, but he had a suspicion there was more evidence to be found in the embassy. Another body? Why was the president so sure it was a Hashishim? Perhaps something was left behind.

"His Holiness, the Emperor Cohen, understands Ankh-Morpork is not to blame. This will not become an international incident," the Embassador said to Vimes.

"That will probably stop Vetinari from staring at me then," Vimes mumbled to himself

"If you need anything else Commander, all you need to do is ask," the man said, suggesting that it was preferred if Vimes didn't.

"Yes, actually, I do have a question," Vimes said, watching the man bristle with irritation. "Why are you so certain it was the Hashishim?"

"The snake, Commander. It is unusual in Ankh-Morpork and in the Empire. Your watch… woman said it was Hersheban."

"This is some sort of political thing isn't it?"

"Perhaps. Neither Ankh-Morpork nor the Empire wants blame for Lady Wei Ling's death. If it is proved that she was simply killed by foreign assassins, then it can be taken as an unfortunate event and diplomacy may continue as usual."

"Did you have something against the Lady?" Vimes asked suspiciously.

"Why do you ask that commander?" the Embassador asked, poker faced.

"Because you don't seem very upset by her death."

"I assure you Commander, we had a purely professional relationship. Nothing more, nothing less. Is that all?"

"If the embassy would allow, we'd like to perform an autopsy on her body. After that, the embassy can declare her death," Vimes said. He was certain the Embassador would refuse his request.

"I cannot let you mutilate her body, she must be whole and perfect for her funeral, which is tomorrow. Perhaps it would be better to keep her death a secret for a while," the Embassador said.

"What? Why? You're not going to do pull some political trick are you?"

"No, but I believe it may aid the watch if her death was kept secret," the Embassador reasoned.

"As in, the Hashishim are contract killers so if whoever is hiring them isn't sure they've done the job, then maybe they'd stop giving them contracts until they know Lady Wei Ling is dead?" said Vimes, on what he believed was the same wavelength.

"Definitely. I hear the Actor's and Thieves' guilds were also quite willing to assist the watch," the man said suggestively.

"So I should get some of the actors to dress up as Lady Wei Ling and go around pretending to be her?"

"What an excellent idea!"

"No way. It's not going to happen. Some poor woman will have to dress up as her and then be targeted by the Hashishim. I'm not going to use someone as bait!"

"As you wish Commander," the Embassador agreed.

Vimes had a feeling the Actors would soon be knocking on his door, and knew there would be nothing he could do to prevent them from impersonating the late Lady Wei Ling.

* * *

(**1) - ninja years – experience. Up to a scale of 100 years, it had nothing to do with actual age. The four ninjas were all in their mid twenties.**

**The exams are about to start so I won't be able to post for a few weeks :(**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14 – Thank you Riandra for reviewing, you reminded me about my story (which I'd actually completely forgotten about!)**

**Really sorry to those people who were reading my story and waiting for an update, but i'm on holidays now and not doing much so will probably be able to update quickly and finish the story before last year at uni becomes too much of a burden!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Sartor square was, as usual, packed with people out shopping at the market stalls. A colourful Agatean litter made its way slowly through the crowd. Some people glanced at it, noting the expensive silk adorning even the servants carrying it. The poorest Agateans were millionaires in Ankh-Morpork, but there were very few who ever ventured outside the empire.

Chrystal Snowflake Grouse fiddled with a loose bit of string on her sleeve as she reclined in the litter. She was younger and her face was fuller than Lady Wei Ling, but it had been decided that with a bit of make-up, a wig and some high heels, she looked nearly identical to the late Lady. She knew it was a dangerous part she was playing, but she was an actor and The Performance always came first. Besides, she was doing it for Boniface, a dwarf well liked by most of the actors and someone whom she had respected. She remembered the time when she'd suffered from a bout of stage fright. Boniface had given her something else to fear, saving the performance and propelling her career to new heights. She'd never forget the way the light glinted so menacingly off his knife. She'd never had stage fright again after that night, though did tend to have nightmares from time to time. She'd been given the opportunity to say a moving (and as melodramatic as possible) eulogy at his funeral.

Watchmen surrounded the litter to form a visible protection force, while assassins observed the crowd from the roofs, and thieves walked amongst the people. Vimes had resisted the actors, and shouted that it was unethical for someone to be forced to become bait, but then eventually gave in when he realised the actors were disobeying his orders and going ahead with their impersonation anyway.

It had been two days now and the hashishim had not even shown themselves. They hadn't killed anyone else, which was good, but Chrystal wished something would hurry up and happen. She'd always hated waiting.

* * *

Mr Yoh examined the crowd from his vantage point on a roof. No one had done anything suspicious, no one had gone near the litter, and as far as he could tell there were no snakes anywhere. The hashishim had not made an attempt on the actress, but hadn't inhumed anyone else – a sure sign their contractor was in doubt. With any luck, the hashishim would be caught when they tried to eliminate the impersonator.

Or, possibly, whoever was hiring them would make a mistake and try to see whether the Lady was the real one. Mr Yoh preferred the latter. The hashishim had shown themselves to be highly dangerous, and if the books in the guild library were still up to date then the hashishim would just keep on coming, no matter how many were captured or killed, until all the contracts were completed.

No, it was best to find the source, the person who was hiring them, and force the client to cancel the contracts.

* * *

Lord Gumbute was frustrated, but because he was in company he managed to not show it. He was idly drinking red cabernet-savoury wine and making small talk with company at Lady Selachii's annual birthday ball. It would not do to begin ranting in the middle of the room and disgrace himself. Not to mention reveal his secret.

Many couples were enjoying a dance, while singles and those too old to keep up stood to the side and gossiped. Gumbute would have joined in were it not for his knee.

The cause of his frustration stood at the other end of the room exchanging pleasantries with other diplomats. The hashishim had stated in no uncertain terms that Lady Wei Ling was dead – and yet there she stood! Of course, they told him she was a fake, that it was an impersonator meant to create doubt in his mind. Apparently it was a tactic used against them often. Gumbute wasn't sure. He knew there were ninjas in the embassy and one hashishim reportedly needed an igor to reattach his arm. He believed it was quite possible they had given up and pretended they'd assassinated the target. Perhaps pretending they'd completed contracts was a tactic _they _used often.

Gumbute waited patiently for a time to approach the Lady and see for himself whether she was an imposter. He would have to take his time and be subtle as no doubt people like Vimes were waiting for someone to check and reveal themselves as the hashishim employer.

His chance came when the Lady made a short circuit of the room, stopping to make polite conversation with his group as she passed. He congratulated himself on being able to spot a few discreet changes, certain that no one else noticed. The impersonator's nose was flatter, her face slightly rounder, and she was a little shorter. She was a very skilled actress as she walked with the same imposing grace as the former lady and spoke using the same mannerisms. Lord Gumbute didn't react and pretended to believe she was the original Lady, but he wanted to make sure.

"How is your garden, my lady?" he asked.

"It is as perfect as ever," the imposter lady replied aloofly.

"And the large fish, what did you say they were called again?"

"They are Koi fish, Lord Gumbute."

"Didn't you tell me they were just normal fish, Trout or something?" he asked, drawing her into his trap.

"I don't believe I did," she replied before excusing herself from the group.

The actress hid her ignorance well, but the real Lady Wei Ling had told him her fish were Carp, which she believed were better than mere Koi. Had he not been looking for it he never would have realised she was fake, but he believed it was due instead to his intelligence and amazing observation skills. He resisted the urge to smile and continued his interactions with the other lords, most of whom were complaining about the drop in standards these days.

* * *

**Reviewing is good for my memory…**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15 – thanks for reviewing riandra. I'd update faster, but work, physics, chemistry, biology and latin… well it just seems like time flies by before I've realised how long its been!**

**A short one, but I hope the description/artistry of the chapter makes up for it.**

* * *

It was early in the morning so there were only a few customers in La Volpe café. Miriam carefully arranged the cake display, while the owner of the café, Jeffrey Kinds, made a coffee order.

Assassins were the main customers, this being the closest and by far the most stylish café. Jeffrey himself had trained as an assassin, but had realised his true calling was running his own business. He had a passion for coffee and provided the greatest variety of blends in Ankh-Morpork. Beans came from all over the disc, from Genua, Klatch, Krull, Be Trobi, and there was even a new rare one from Fourecks. As a result, connoisseurs of coffee also frequented the shop, though it meant Jeffrey was forced to expand his opening hours. The addicts now stood outside at 4am, jittering from cold and lack of caffeine, waiting for Jeffrey to open at 5 o'clock. (As we all know, assassins believe in being fashionably late. Hence Jeffry opened at 5am, instead of 4:30 as his opening hours sign claimed).

It was because of these early hours that Miriam had been hired. For some strange reason, she always woke at sixteen minutes past three, no matter what she did. This meant that she was dead tired at three in the afternoon, but luckily her shift ended at noon.

Jeffrey expertly carried the tray of coffee to a group of student assassins in the corner. It was unusual for the group to be here so early, but they were leaving on a field trip in half an hour and had decided they'd have an advantage if they were fully awake and given a boost by Jeffrey's special extra-strong psychedelic energy blend.

As Jeffrey picked up some empty cups and began to return to the counter, a woman, possibly another assassin as she was dressed in black, rose from her seat and headed for the door. She seemed to accidentally bump into him, but gave no apology and simply continued on her way outside.

Time seemed to slow down. Jeffrey stood frozen on the spot, a puzzled expression on his face. Miriam watched as he placed a hand to his neck and then held it up to eye level. His fist was full of rubies… they must have been rubies. They glittered in the light. A few dropped to the floor.

The thuds as they hit the ground were the only sound in the room, but they seemed distant. More rubies fell, creating a bed of sparkling red. Jeffrey laid down on the ground, rolling in the precious jewels.

He was laughing… and crying.

He'd even dropped the tray of cups in his surprise and delight at having all those beautiful jewels. The cracked cutlery mixed with the red rocks, creating a mosaic on the floor.

Some of the other customers came over to him. Some of them stood and smiled in joy at his new found wealth. Others knelt down to shake his hand in congratulations. The rubies were still pouring out of his neck and rolling across the floor.

He lay still on them. Silent. A contented smile on his face.

* * *

"She's in shock real bad, sir."

* * *

**Dun dun daaa! Will the hashishim ever be stopped? Will I remember to update next week? Will that crazy diamond shine on?**

**I just realised I don't actually have an ending for this, so I better get writing. If anyone has any suggestions/desires of how it should end I'd like to hear them!**


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